


Love is a Losing Game

by chamel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 60s Chess AU, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Chess, Chess Tournaments, Cold War, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Flirting Over A Chess Board, Idiots in Love, Illya POV, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Medium Burn, Mutual Pining, Mutual Pining While Fucking, Napoleon pov, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rivalry, Rivals to Secret Friends to Secret Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel
Summary: There is a reason the crowd is so huge for such an early game in the tournament. The newly crowned World Chess Champion, facing off against the American hot shot who some say is the only one who has a chance of beating him; it is a rivalry that the chess media—hell, even themediamedia—has latched onto with gusto. A little Cold War, fought right here over this chess board.(or, an AU set in the world of competitve chess tournaments during the late 1960s. When secret, late-night training matches between sworn rivals turn into something more, both men are forced to confront what is truly important to them. Updates on Sundays.)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Comments: 56
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you are in the mood for another long-form AU featuring our boys. This fic owes its original spark of inspiration to eavos, and the development of that spark to my finally watching _The Queen's Gambit_. A 1960s chess AU just seems to fit them so perfectly, and I could not resist. I've built up a decent buffer of chapters so I'm starting to post because I cannot wait, but know that the whole thing is very meticulously planned to the end. This fic will update weekly on Sundays, as is my wont.
> 
> I've perhaps done more research for this fic than I have for any previous one. All of the tournaments in this fic were real, the experiences that are described are often based on real experiences by grandmasters at the time, and when possible I've tried to make the "chess talk" at least make some sense. That said, while I do know how to play chess I am extremely far from understanding the details of truly competitive chess, so I apologize if I make any errors. Also, I hope you will allow me some artistic license on what our boys were able to get up to, although honestly it's no worse (IMO) than what's depicted in media like _The Queen's Gambit_.
> 
> There will be some eventual smut in this fic, so I've gone ahead and rated it as explicit even though it will take us a few chapters to get there. I'll try to warn you before the chapter(s) where it's a very significant part in case you'd prefer to skim over it.
> 
> Finally, as always, I have to give my effusive thanks to the folks on the tmfu!! discord server for sharing their knowledge and opinions and always cheering me on. You guys are the best.
> 
> Title taken from the song of the same name by Amy Winehouse.

_2nd Piatigorsky Cup, 1966_  
_Santa Monica, California_

It’s funny, how narrow the world gets in moments like this. Napoleon knows there is a large crowd gathered around them. He knows that countless eyes watch their every move, every twitch, every breath. Somewhere a short distance away, a low voice murmurs into a microphone as a radio announcer provides commentary on each move, but play has slowed, so there are long, pregnant silences in the broadcast. The occasional hiss of a whisper filters through, perhaps one of their former competitors, or someone else who thinks they know better.

They do not. There is a reason the crowd is so huge for such an early game in the tournament. The newly crowned World Chess Champion, facing off against the American hot shot who some say is the only one who has a chance of beating him; it is a rivalry that the chess media—hell, even the _media_ media—has latched onto with gusto. A little Cold War, fought right here over this chess board. The two aren’t scheduled to play each other again in the double round-robin tournament until the very last round, and Napoleon can’t help but wonder if that was not an accident.

Deep within his consciousness, Napoleon knows that this environment surrounds him. He does not sense it, though. His world has been reduced to the deafening ticking of the clock to his left, to the scratch of a pencil on paper recording a move, to the smell of old wood and felt, to the brilliant, icy blue eyes that are fixated on him like he is the only thing in the world. Well, the only thing besides the chess set between them.

A single word breaks through to his awareness, someone close enough, speaking loud enough, to be audible. _Trapped_. Whoever said it is immediately shushed, but everyone heard it anyway. Every person in this room is staring at him, thinking the same thing. He is trapped.

He is _not_.

Is he in a bad place? Certainly. A large portion of the people in this room would concede at this point. Hell, they would have conceded five moves ago. But Napoleon is stubborn, and the game has not been played out. He knows this. His opponent knows this, though Napoleon has noticed the subtle shift in his posture. The surety and pride in his inevitable win that he works hard to conceal. Or perhaps not _so_ hard; Napoleon’s eyes flick up from the board to see the corner of his mouth twitch upward, almost imperceptibly.

That stupid, tempting mouth, with its stupid, plush lips.

Napoleon drops his eyes again. The time ticks down. It is now or never. He’s analyzed the board ad nauseam, and in the end he uses none of it. He follows his gut. There is an eruption of murmurs when he moves, noises of surprise and confusion. It’s unexpected, this move, which _shouldn’t_ surprise anyone at this point. That’s what Napoleon does: the unexpected.

Across from him, a tiny wrinkle appears on his opponent’s brow, but quickly smooths away. He’s still confident, and he has every reason to be. The next move comes swiftly, capturing the bishop Napoleon had left undefended. It’s what any reasonable chess player would do, the obvious move. Almost impossible to do anything else, really.

Napoleon’s lips curl into a grin that bares his canines before he can stop them. He shouldn’t, he knows, poor sportsmanship and all that, but he can’t help himself.

Illya took the bait.

* * *

**_Six Months Earlier_ **

_1965/66 Hastings International Chess Congress_  
_Hastings, England_

“I’ve never seen someone play like this,” Kozlov mutters under his breath. “He’s a lunatic.”

They are standing far enough away that they won’t be overheard, just close enough to make out the display board behind the player’s heads. Play is moving fairly rapidly in the match between the two players: one of the French competitors that Illya has played a few times—a decent player, if a little unimaginative—and the man they came to see, even if they wouldn’t admit it.

Illya is not sure he has ever seen someone so _American_. He looks more like a Hollywood movie star than a top chess player, with his flashy suit, perfectly coifed dark hair, broad shoulders, and ridiculously chiseled jaw. Surely such a person cannot actually be _real_. And yet here he sits, playing a nearly incomprehensible but ruthless game against the Frenchman, who clearly doesn’t stand a chance.

Incomprehensible isn’t quite the right word. There is a method to his madness, though it _is_ still madness. Illya watches the American’s moves closely, and though they are unorthodox to say the least, they are imminently successful at backing his opponent into a corner. It’s difficult to play someone like this—someone who doesn’t just not play the traditional patterns but actively thumbs his nose at them—but though they might have success in certain venues, such players typically pose no threat when they come up against an opponent they can’t just steamroll over.

When they come up against the Soviets.

“Coffeehouse play,” Illya says dismissively. “Cormier should have had him ten moves ago.”

“Maybe. But he did win the American championship last month by more than two points.”

Illya lets out a soft snort. “Yes, against _Americans_. He won’t make it into the top ten in an international tournament.”

“Care to make a wager?” Kozlov asks, eyebrows arcing skyward.

“You think he could do it? You are the one who said he is a lunatic.”

Kozlov shrugs. “I think he is a wild card.”

Illya watches the next few moves of the match; the American is wearing a small, confident smile now, almost smug. It is infuriating in a way he can’t fully articulate.

“He is nobody,” Illya grunts. “I will take that bet.”

* * *

A week later, Illya is beginning to regret his wager. The American has won four of his five games, including his match against Kozlov. Oleg had laid into him fiercely for carelessness, but when Illya had studied the board later he’d been hard pressed to say what he’d have done differently in Kozlov’s position. There were frustratingly few holes in the American’s gameplay, which shouldn’t have been possible given the types of strategies he was employing, but the results were incontrovertible.

Not only is Napoleon Solo headed rather easily to the top ten, but by most reckoning he looks to be a contender to take the entire championship.

Illya will have something to say about _that_. And if he starts to pay closer attention to Solo’s matches—if he starts attending every one he can, and studying past games that have been published—it is certainly not because he is _worried_. It pays to be prepared, is all, and the more he knows about how Solo plays, the better he’ll be able to shut him down as quickly as possible. There _are_ holes in his gameplay, if one looks hard enough, and tricks he tends to rely on over and over again that work mainly because they are unexpected.

Also because they are clever, Illya has to grudgingly admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind. There is an underlying elegance to Solo’s strategy, one that’s not obvious at first but becomes more apparent the more one analyzes his games. It irritates Illya, and it fascinates him. He hates that he now wants to watch Solo’s games just to see what the man will do next. Because they are _interesting_.

Goddammit.

He is scowling through yet another of Solo’s matches (the easiest way to keep himself from looking accidentally _impressed_ ) when Kozlov sidles up to him, apparently having finished his own game. Illya knows he should have been watching Kozlov play, and he knows he’ll get chewed out later for missing it, but clearly it can’t have been much of a match if he’s finished already.

“Why am I not surprised to find you here?” Kozlov asks, smirking in a way that Illya does not care for at all. Illya makes a noncommittal sound as they watch Solo use a poisoned pawn strategy to take out his opponent’s kingside rook. “Still think he’s a coffeehouse player?”

 _No_ , Illya does not say. Napoleon Solo is something else entirely. Something unexpected and unexplainable. “You are just bitter because he beat you.”

“And you are bitter because you are losing our bet. Don’t underestimate him, Kuryakin. He has more talent than you think.”

In fact, underestimating Solo’s talent is not a problem that Illya has anymore, but it is better if Kozlov—and everyone else—does not know that. It is especially better if Solo himself does not know that. For one, if he doesn’t realize that Illya has studied his games, he’ll be more likely to use the same tricks that Illya now knows how to counter. But also, Illya has not even officially met the man and he is already completely insufferable. He cannot imagine how much worse it would be if Solo knew what Illya really thought of his strategies.

“I’m headed to lunch. You coming?” Kozlov asks.

Illya shakes his head. “You go. I’ll catch up later.”

“You really want to stay to see Lopez get eviscerated? The match is almost over anyway.”

“Then I won’t be long, will I?” Illya says, a little stubbornly. He glances away from the game long enough to see Kozlov giving him an odd look, which he decides to ignore.

If he wants to spend his time watching the end of a rather lopsided game of chess, it is his business, and no one else’s.

* * *

The first thing Napoleon does when finishes his match against Belinsky is go looking for Gaby. He half expects to find her still playing her own match, but when he realizes just how late it has gotten he can’t be surprised that she’s curled up in an armchair in the hotel lobby, reading whatever book on chess theory she’d picked up most recently. She seems to practically inhale them, and lately Napoleon has taken to letting her blow through the new ones before he bothers picking them up. She’ll let him know if they’re worth reading.

Today she’s wearing a grey sweater he got for her the last time they were in Paris and a full wool skirt, which her stockinged legs are currently tucked up under against the English winter air, chilly even inside. A few locks of brown hair have come loose out of her bun and hang down in her face as she reads, softening her look just a touch. Just enough that it has apparently emboldened several hapless young men to try to grab her attention, but she’s so focused on the book that she completely misses the attempts. Gaby would only roll her eyes if she realized it was happening, but Napoleon can’t help a smile.

It’s so nice to have her here. This is one of the few tournaments that allows women to compete alongside the men, and even so she is one of the few women there this year. Probably she’ll get another magazine cover out of it, which she loves to complain about even though he knows she secretly enjoys them. She has been doing well—not a surprise, most of these players have nothing on her—and will certainly come away with prize money. Shamefully, even the winnings from a lower place in this tournament are more than she’d get from taking the championship in a women’s tournament, and so she always takes the opportunity when she gets it, though few other women do.

(Secretly, one of Napoleon’s favorite pastimes at a tournament is watching as some unsuspecting, chauvinistic man makes a comment on men’s versus women’s chess to her. Listening to her tear someone to shreds is always exhilarating.)

Gaby doesn’t look up when Napoleon walks over to her, but he can see the corner of her mouth twitch upward. His stupid noisy shoes always tell her he’s coming, she would say, but that’s only because she doesn’t want to admit she knows the cadence of his steps.

“Please tell me you took that guy down a peg,” Napoleon says in lieu of a greeting.  
  
Gaby looks up at him, then follows his line of sight to where Illya Kuryakin stands with the other Soviets. A frown plays across her fine features, but she doesn’t look that upset. “Sorry, Solo. I’m afraid he might be just as good as everyone says he is.”

“Well that’s disappointing,” he sighs. “Learn anything useful about his playstyle?”

“Only what we already knew,” she answers with a shrug, slipping a bookmark into place as she closes her book. “He’s conservative, but don’t let that fool you. Waits for his opponents to over-extend themselves on the attack, then darts right through any holes you left doing so.”

“But you never leave any holes, my dear,” Napoleon protests, cocking an eyebrow at her.

Gaby smirks at him. “He finds them anyway.”

“You think he can beat me?”  
  
“Yes,” she answers flatly, pursing her lips against the look of mock outrage he puts on. “Don’t act surprised. They say he has a shot of taking the World Championship title from Belinsky this year.”

“Your lack of confidence wounds me,” he says, affecting an exaggerated pout.

Gaby only laughs at him as she shakes her head. Unfolding herself from the chair, she slips her feet back into her heels and accepts his hand to help her stand. “You seem very pleased with yourself today.”

Napoleon grins broadly. “I played Belinsky to a draw.”

“Ooh, well done you. I guess that explains _that_ ,” she says, nodding toward the Soviets. Belinsky has joined them now, as has a grizzled older man who appears to be tearing Napoleon’s unfortunate opponent a new one.

“Who’s the guy who looks like he ate an entire grapefruit?”

“That’s Oleg. He was World Champion thirty years ago, now he trains the Soviet players,” she explains. “There are rumors he retired from chess because he was recruited by the KGB, and everyone assumes he travels with the Soviet contingency now as a handler for the other agents along with keeping the players in line. Hates Americans. _Really_ hates flashy Americans.”

As if on cue, Oleg and the rest of the Soviets look over at Napoleon and Gaby, and the glower on the older man’s face is positively murderous. In response, Napoleon sends them his widest, most ingratiating grin and waves cheerily.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Gaby hisses, her eyes going wide.

“Just being friendly.”

Gaby groans. “Ugh, you probably put yourself on some hit list, now.”

“If I turn up dead, you’ll know who did it,” Napoleon offers nonchalantly.

“Not funny,” she growls.

“Oh come on, like they care about one upstart chess player.”

It’s true that Napoleon is pretty full of himself—with good reason, he’ll point out—but he also knows that the Soviets are even _more_ full of themselves when it comes to chess. That they would see him as a threat when he just recently made a name for himself is almost laughable. He knows that the Soviets probably _should_ scare him, especially someone who works for the KGB, but he also really doubts that one annoying chess player is something that they’re really concerned about.

“One upstart _American_ chess player. You beat Kozlov. For Christ’s sake, you played the reigning World Champion to a draw today, Solo. Believe me, they care.”

“Hmm,” Napoleon hums uncertainly. “What about you? You won your match against Kozlov, too.”  
  
“I’m East German, darling, even if I play as an American now. I get a pass,” she says, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Come on, let’s go before they actually manage to set you on fire with their eyes.”

“So what else did you think of Kuryakin?” Napoleon asks casually as they walk to get their coats.

Gaby peers up at him, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Kind of unfair that someone that annoying could be that handsome.”

“Oh no you don’t,” she says, rounding on him and stopping them dead in the hallway.

Napoleon puts on his best and most convincing look of innocence. Gaby does not appear to buy it. “What? Just an observation.”

“Absolutely not. Hitting on a Soviet is _actually_ going to get you killed,” she huffs, then turns on her heel and takes off again, leaving him to hurry after her. “What is going on with you? I thought you hated this guy?”  
  
“Hate is such a strong word,” Napoleon muses. “Anyway I don’t have to like him to appreciate the… aesthetics.”

“Well appreciate _silently_. Or better yet, forget about it entirely.”

“Ok, ok. You’re right, of course.”

Gaby narrows her eyes at him and purses her lips suspiciously. “You’re not going to leave it, are you? You never can.”

“C’mon, of course I can. I _will_ , I promise,” he says, and he means it. He does. “I have _some_ self-preservation instincts, you know.”

It’s just a stupid flight of fancy, anyway. Can he help it if the Russian is good-looking _and_ fascinating? If the absurd amount of talent he apparently possesses is as attractive as it is irritating? Napoleon _knows_ that the chance of his ever being on even vaguely friendly terms with Kuryakin are practically zero, but something draws him in nonetheless. Something unexplainable and unidentifiable. And really, something he’d rather not think about too much. In a few short days he will play a match against Kuryakin for the first time, and perhaps that will satisfy his always insatiable curiosity about these things.

Times like these, Napoleon realizes that Gaby knows him entirely too well. She stares at him skeptically, almost like she can read his thoughts. “Hmm,” she hums, “could have fooled me.”

* * *

Napoleon does not sleep well the night before the match. Or rather, it might be more accurate to say that he doesn’t get a lot of sleep; saying he didn’t sleep well implies that he fell asleep in the first place. It’s not like he intended to stay up most of the night, staring at the ceiling, but his mind had been buzzing with everything he knew about Kuryakin’s past games, thinking about potential attacks and counterattacks, playing through different permutations in his head.

He doesn’t really know why he let himself get so psyched up for this game in particular. The night before he played the current World Chess Champion he slept like a baby. Maybe it’s because they’re nearing the end of the tournament now—only three days of matches remain—and though Napoleon does not lack in confidence in his abilities, he’s outperformed even his own expectations for his first major international tournament. At this point he’s guaranteed to place in the top five, and given the matches he has yet to play, it seems likely he’ll end up in the top three. And if he could beat Kuryakin—

Well. Taking that point from the Russian could win him the entire tournament.

Add to all of that his strange and persistent fascination with Kuryakin. Brilliant, ruthless, aloof, mysterious: the man couldn’t have been more perfectly designed to attract Napoleon, which, as Gaby had so bluntly pointed out, is a problem. Napoleon had spent nearly as much time thinking about the man himself as his games. There isn't a lot of information out there on the personal lives of the Soviet chess players in the first place—they don't exactly go in for glossy magazine spreads like the Americans—but about Kuryakin there is next to nothing. Not that he has actually _looked_ , honestly.

The wakeup call comes far too early that morning. By some miracle the grey English weather has given way to a bright, crisp winter day, which means that Napoleon is also assaulted by wholly unexpected sunlight streaming through the curtains that he hadn’t bothered closing the previous night. The upside is that he is quite thoroughly awake, even though he has zero desire to be. He blinks blearily at the clock and curses whoever scheduled the matches to start so early in the morning.

Breakfast with Gaby passes by mostly in a haze. He listens to her talk about how her match today should be a breeze, ignores her tutting at him about his current condition, and downs enough espresso that he almost feels human by the end of the meal. He’s played in worse shape and won handily, but those players weren’t Illya Kuryakin.

The Russian, of course, looks as composed and perfect as ever. Napoleon would have expected nothing less. The expression that Kuryakin regards him with reminds him of nothing so much as the cold, hard glare of a lion staring down its prey, which Napoleon guesses is supposed to be intimidating. Napoleon Solo is no one’s prey, though; no, he is another lion come to claim the carcass of this match (so the metaphor is getting a bit thin, he’s _tired_ , ok?), and he plasters on his brightest, most self-assured smile as he takes the seat on the other side of the chess board.

“A pleasure to finally sit down with the Red Peril himself.”

Kuryakin frowns at the nickname, or perhaps just frowns at Napoleon in general. Hard to tell. “You seem confident.”

“Just excited to finally get to see what all the fuss is about for myself,” Napoleon quips lightly. “I do hope I’m not disappointed.”

“You will be disappointed in the outcome.”

“You think so?”

Kuryakin regards him for a moment, as if evaluating the answer to this question, even though they both know exactly what he thinks. “I think you should get back up on you horse, _Cowboy_ , because this game is not going to go the way you expect.”

“Gentlemen?” the monitor interrupts before Napoleon can get in a rejoinder, which he feels is powerfully unfair. His mouth snaps shut, and Kuryakin looks entirely too smug for someone who’s face has barely twitched a muscle.

“You may begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first of what will likely be quite a few historical endnotes: Gaby's character is based in part on a real person, Lisa Lane. Despite what's shown in _The Queen's Gambit_ it was (and still is!) almost impossible for women to compete in the same tournaments as men; there are separate women's tournaments that Beth would have been competing in instead. Lisa Lane was a chess star in the 60s (first chess player to get the cover of _Sport's Illustrated_ ) and she did manage to compete with the men sometimes; she also had a lot of strong feelings on the matter of segregation. There are more aspects of her life that I've given to Gaby as well, but those will come out later in the fic.
> 
> As always, thank you so so SO much for reading, and for all your kudos and comments. I hope you are excited about this AU as I am, and I'd love to hear what you think. Even the shortest comments absolutely make my day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, on the forging of a (not so) reluctant friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I am so thrilled to hear how many of you are excited for this AU, because I have to tell you I'm completely in love with this story. It has been so much fun to write. If you're wondering what the time scale is on these, the tournaments usually last 4–6 weeks. This tournament was originally supposed to be one chapter, but the boys got a bit chatty, so you'll get the second half of the tournament next week!

_Mar del Plata Tournament, 1966_   
_Argentina_

It begins the very first day of the tournament.

Illya is standing over a chessboard from one of the matches that morning when someone approaches from behind him. At first he assumes it is one of the other Soviets, but the steps don’t quite sound right, and a moment later none other than Napoleon Solo appears in the edge of his peripheral vision. Illya ignores him. He’s not sure what the American wants, but whatever it is, he is not getting it from Illya.

“He never should have played the Marshall Defense,” Solo says conversationally, as if discussing chess was something they did frequently. “Really, of all the variations to choose. I feel like the Albin Countergambit is really underappreciated, don’t you?”

Illya can’t say he disagrees—at least not on the efficacy of the Marshall Defense—but he has no desire stand here and discuss variations on the Queen’s Gambit Declined opening with Napoleon fucking Solo. Unfortunately, Solo doesn’t seem to notice or care about Illya’s icy demeanor and keeps prattling away.

“Clearly he was trying to transpose into the Grünfeld Defense, but that’s quite risky. If I _had_ to use the Marshall—”

“Can I help you?” Illya snaps, and Solo startles like he had hardly been aware that Illya was the one he was talking to. The surprise on his face flits away quickly, though, replaced by an insouciant shrug.

“Just making conversation.”

“You cannot make it with someone else?”

The mischievous grin on Solo’s face implies that he’s just managed to say something unintentionally suggestive, and Illya swears internally as he scowls at the other man.

“Oh, but I’d much rather make it with you, Peril,” Solo croons at him.

With a huff, Illya turns on his heel and begins walking off, wondering what he did to make the American think that he was interested in talking to him. He had assumed that things would go back to as they were in Hastings before their match, when everyone kept their distance and mostly ignored each other, but as Solo hurries after him he realizes that is apparently not the case.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” Solo offers, sounding not all that apologetic. “But you can’t tell me that you’d rather go talk about the same, tired strategies with the same people you always do. Wouldn’t it be better to discuss some fresh ideas for a change?”

“No, Cowboy, I don’t think so,” Illya says bluntly. “Now if you will excuse me.”

This time when Illya walks off, Solo doesn’t follow. But although he doesn’t realize it at first, the seed has been planted, deep in Illya’s mind. An idea that will germinate and grow until it becomes unignorable, and even when he becomes aware of it, he will be powerless to stop it.

* * *

It continues, a little bit every day, a constant onslaught on his defenses. Illya’s not even sure if Solo is intentionally doing it, at least not entirely. The man is so goddamn nonchalant about everything, and nearly impossible to read past his easy smiles that seem open when they are anything but.

On the fourth day he finds himself arguing back about strategy before he can stop himself. Solo’s face lights up when he does, as if getting Illya to argue about chess is his greatest accomplishment that day, rather than his win over the Hungarian who had been seeded rather highly in this tournament. Illya almost calls him on it, but then he decides he doesn’t actually want to know.

“Would be interesting to try out,” Solo suggests, after they sling a few moves back and forth, “you know, in an actual game.”

“We just did,” Illya replies, a little confused. “Nothing would change if we had a board.”

Solo just grins at him like he had planned for Illya to say that, though Illya cannot fathom why. “You don’t really think that. If you did, you’d just sit around playing chess in your head all day. A real game, on a real board: there is something special about it that you just can’t replicate.”

Illya hates that he has a point. He absolutely does not conceded it out loud. Instead he grunts noncomittally and leaves the conversation, and the exasperating American, behind once again.

* * *

“Your strategy would not work,” Illya tells him the next day. It is the first time he initiates a conversation, although Solo was the one who walked up to _him_.

“Oh?” the American says, cocking an eyebrow at him. “And how do you know?”

Illya lets out a small sigh, not really wanting to admit what he’s about to. “I played through it last night. On a _real board_.”

“When I said you needed a real game with a real board, I thought the third component was implicit.”

“What third component?”

Solo grins at him. “A real opponent, of course.”

* * *

“A real opponent is a necessary part of the equation, Peril,” Solo says the day after that, continuing their conversation like no time had passed.

They are ostensibly watching a match between an Englishman and a Spaniard, though the game itself is not very interesting. But everyone else is watching the match and not them, and they’ve also positioned themselves apart from the main gathering of spectators, so their _sotto voce_ conversation goes unnoticed.

“I am more than capable of imagining an opponent’s possible moves,” Illya hisses back.

They are standing on either side of a large support column—a thin veneer of deniability that they are talking to each other—so Illya cannot see Solo’s face, and yet somehow he can _feel_ the man’s eye roll. “Nothing against your imagination, but I doubt that very much. Not _all_ of them.”

“All _rational_ moves.”

“Well, then,” Solo replies, like Illya just made his point for him.

“Are you admitting that you are not rational, Cowboy?”

“Ha ha,” Solo says dryly. “What I’m saying is how can you truly get better unless you play against a real opponent? Someone who will make decisions you might not expect? Who will challenge you?”  
  
Illya allows his lips to curl into a small, private smile, only because he knows that Solo cannot see it. “I do not need to get better. I am already the best.”

It strikes him after he says it that he is _teasing_ the American. How did they get to this point? How did Solo become someone that he could joke with?

“Hold up there, my friend,” Solo scoffs, and that, combined with his prior realization, temporarily stops his brain. Is that what they are becoming? Friends? It sounds absurd, and yet Illya cannot deny that the tone of their conversations has radically shifted over the past week. But he cannot dwell on it too long, because Solo is still talking. “You haven’t won the World Championship yet. And anyway, I said play against someone who will challenge you.”  
  
“You think that is you?” Illya manages, shoving the thoughts about friendship to the side. “You did not put up so much of a challenge in Hastings.”  
  
“That’s not true and you know it,” Solo replies, sounding a little wounded. “You’ve played me once. Hardly enough to make any kind of judgement.”

Illya refuses to feel bad about bringing up Solo’s loss at the tournament where they had first met. Anyway, Solo is the one who has been talking himself up so much. Ok, so the match had actually been a decent challenge, though the American’s game had seemed a little off somehow. _Not_ that Illya knew it well enough to be able to tell that.

“The same could be said for you,” he mutters back.

“Well,” Solo says carefully, “I welcome the opportunity to be proven wrong. Or not. Do you?”

  
  


* * *

“How would we even play these matches? It is impossible.”

The words feel like they are dragged unwillingly from his throat. Because truly, Illya does not want to play illicit secret training matches with Napoleon Solo. The idea is preposterous. He’s just asking _hypothetically_.

“You’re probably right,” Solo says simply, catching Illya entirely by surprise. He glances up for a split second from the book he’s pretending to read when Illya doesn’t reply. “We couldn’t very well play them in public. I know what your lot would think of that. And you’ve always got that KGB escort. I couldn’t come to your room, and you couldn’t sneak out past them—”

“Of course I could,” Illya interrupts.

Solo blinks at him. “You think you can outsmart the KGB?”

“Is not so hard,” Illya shrugs. He nods subtly toward where a couple of KGB agents sit a ways away. They are there to keep an eye on Illya and the other Soviets who are currently relaxing in the lounge of the hotel, but they are mostly embroiled in a game of cards. Illya knows better than to underestimate them, but he also has the unfortunate benefit of having enough experience with the KGB to know that they are only human. Illya spent years sneaking past KGB agents in his youth to get in and out of his own house. Not that he is going to tell Solo this.

“Here, they don’t watch so carefully,” he explains. “And the agents they send resent being assigned to this job. It’s boring. They get sloppy.”

Solo appears to consider this for a moment, tipping his head slightly as he stares down at his book. “I guess it’s not so impossible after all.”

* * *

Illya cannot be too surprised when Oleg tells him to stay behind after their next strategy session. He knows, despite the efforts they have made, that his conversations with Solo have not gone unnoticed. At the beginning they were mostly ignored, but they are spending too much time around each other. He should have put a stop to it days ago, but he supposes that he had hoped, futilely, that the others might turn a blind eye. It’s not like he’s the only one that talks to other players in their downtime.

He is the only one who talks to an _American_.

“You have been frequently seen speaking with the American,” Oleg says.

There is no point in denying it, but he can at least shift the blame a bit. “He approaches me.”

“But you do not send him away.”

“I did not want to be rude.”

Oleg smiles at this, but it is a cruel, hard thing with no mirth in it. “Do not tell me that you are fraternizing with the enemy out of _politeness_ ,” he says venomously. Mercifully, he does not appear to want to hear a defense to this accusation. “I will assume this is a temporary lapse of judgement, Kuryakin, and nothing more, but this is the only warning you will get. You are allowing him to get too close. Put a stop to it. I don’t need to remind you what happens if you should fail to comply.”

“Yes, sir,” Illya answers, keeping his face a careful mask of contrition as an icy tendril of dread curls deep in his gut. Of course he knows. Better than any of the others, he knows.

Illya’s feet carry him out of the room automatically when Oleg dismisses him with a wave. It is only when he is safely in his own hotel room that he lets out a long, shaky breath and manages to uncurl his hands from where they had been clenched into fists. He presses them flat to a table to stop the trembling, trying to ignore the bitter bile that wells up in the back of his throat. It is the old, familiar fear, he knows, but something else as well: a simmering fury at the injustice of the world, that he should be denied the chance at even casual acquaintance with someone because of who they are, that association with the wrong people could once again cost him everything.

That evening he is careful to avoid Solo. When the other man starts approaching him from across the lobby, he turns to leave. He sits with a table full of his countrymen in the lounge, even though he usually keeps to himself. The third time he flees at the sight of Solo, he catches the small frown and furrowed brow on the American’s face. The unmistakable disappointment written there tugs at something inside of Illya, something it decidedly should not be tugging at.

He is not going to be able to keep this up. There are a couple of options available to him, and although he knows that Oleg would probably prefer the one where he publicly tells Solo to fuck off, he also has little doubt as to which one he will ultimately choose.

* * *

The knock on his door comes at the end of a long day. Napoleon had overslept, missed breakfast, barely won his match, and to top it all off, Illya had been quite clearly avoiding him. There could be myriad reasons, but somehow he can’t help but think he did something wrong.

He hadn’t exactly _planned_ to slowly but resolutely become friends with Illya Kuryakin at the start of this tournament. But, well, Gaby had been right when she said he could never leave things like this, and unfortunately—or fortunately—for him, she’s not here to give him grief about it. The first day, when he’d seen Illya just standing by himself over the chess set, he’d approached without really thinking about it. He wanted to talk chess with someone, and who better than a man that insanely, unfairly talented? No one, or at least no one at this tournament.

It had been a bit of a rocky start, with lots of him staring at the back of Illya’s head as he walked away (ok, so maybe it was more accurate to say he’d been doing a lot of staring at Illya’s well-formed backside as he walked away), but slowly the Russian had warmed to him. He always tried to make sure their chats weren’t too long or too obvious, cognizant of the fact that they would be watched, but even so he guesses that he inadvertantly stepped over a line that he shouldn’t have.

So when he opens the door and finds Illya standing on the other side, he’s honestly more relieved than surprised. He steps aside immediately and the Russian comes barreling in, clearly eager to get out of the hall. It is only once he’s standing in the middle of the room that he slows, turning in a circle and looking around like he can’t quite believe he’s in Napoleon’s hotel room. Which is fair, because Napoleon can’t believe he’s there either.

“You came,” Napoleon says dumbly, at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

Illya of course notices the chess board where Napoleon had been working through his match earlier that day, trying to figure out where he’d taken a wrong turn. He walks over to it and stares down at the arrangement of the pieces appraisingly, and Napoleon wants to ask him what he thinks, but he also has so many other questions about this sudden appearance.

“You cannot keep talking to me in public,” Illya says abruptly, not looking up from the board, before Napoleon can even ask one. “It raises too many questions.”  
  
Napoleon blinks at him, trying to process this information. “Hold on a minute, let me get this straight,” he says slowly, “you got in trouble for talking to me about chess, but apparently you don’t actually _want_ to stop talking to me, so instead of just telling me to fuck off, you snuck past your KGB handlers to come here?”

“Do not read too much into it,” Illya grumbles, looking decidedly uncomfortable, and Napoleon knows he should probably let it go but he just can’t.

“You’re aware of how insane that sounds, right? You could get in _so much_ more trouble if they found out.”  
  
“You think I don’t know that?” Illya hisses. He straightens up from the board and folds his arms across his chest. “You were the one who has been angling for me to come here.”  
  
“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would actually _work_ ,” Napoleon admits. “Kinda thought you were joking about the whole sneaking past the KGB thing.”

“Well I am here. Are we going to play?”

Right. Chess. That’s _why_ he’s here, what Napoleon had been needling him into for a week, though the situation still seems a little unreal. Napoleon crosses over to the chess board and begins rearranging the pieces to their home positions, trying not to think about how he can practically feel Illya’s gaze on him as he does so.  
  
“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, and isn’t exactly surprised when Illya gives a small shake of his head.

Illya is not there for socializing, and Napoleon would do well to remember it. Think chess thoughts, he tells himself, and not how absurd it is that Illya somehow feels like a larger presence in the enclosed space than he ever has before, or how close he is standing as Napoleon sets up the board. It’s only because he was already standing there and just didn’t move away when Napoleon walked over. Never mind that that is novel enough in its own right to make his heart race.

“Your game from today?” Illya asks, mercifully interrupting the runaway train of his thoughts.

Napoleon looks up to see that the Russian has finally uncrossed his arms again, and now that he’s not putting up a defensive wall he looks about as awkward about all of this as Napoleon feels. Which is reassuring, in some way.

“Yeah,” Napoleon confirms. “Not a great win.”  
  
Illya hums thoughtfully. “You should have taken his bishop on d3. Would have lost that knight but it would have cut his attack off before he could get into position. Saved you maybe ten moves.”

Huh. He hadn’t thought of that. It seems kind of obvious, now that he can look at it from that perspective. “Thanks. That’s— that’s a lot more elegant than anything I’d come up with so far,” he says, and when he glances up at the other man he finds the ghost of a smile on his lips.

And, well, getting a smile from Illya Kuryakin was definitely not something he’d anticipated tonight. Or ever, really. It makes something warm expand in his chest, and he has to look back down at the board.

_Chess_ thoughts, goddammit.

In the end, it’s a lot easier to stick to chess thoughts when they’re actually playing. It’s a little strained at first, given that they’ve only ever played one game before, and Napoleon isn’t entirely sure how the Soviets usually play their training matches. When he plays with Gaby they chatter through them—sometimes about the game, and sometimes about nothing in particular—but Napoleon doesn’t want to irritate the man he’s only just convinced to play him in the first place, so he holds his tongue even when he’s dying to ask about a move or make a comment. Maybe they’ll get there someday.

Illya pretty solidly trounces him in the first game. He’d like to blame it on his mostly shitty day, but he knows a not-insignificant part of his lack of focus has to do with Illya being in his hotel room, sitting across from him and looking him with an expression that’s somewhere between calculating and fascinated. Like _Napoleon_ is the puzzle he is trying to figure out, and not the chess game between them. Napoleon has no idea what to make of that look.

“Another?” Napoleon asks almost immediately after they finish, because he’s not sure what else to to do and he desperately doesn't want the evening to end already.

Illya’s eyebrows arc up toward his hairline. “If this is the way Americans play training matches I am not so surprised that most of you cannot compete.”  
  
“Wha—” Napoleon sputters, “how we— and just how do the Russians play training matches, Oh Mighty Peril?”

“You are not interested in why that strategy did not work for you?”

Napoleon huffs. “Of course I am. Though I have a pretty good idea on my own, thank you very much. I just— I didn’t know what you—”

“Relax, Cowboy. I don’t know what they tell you, but we are not chess robots.” Illya presses his lips together, obviously fighting back a smile, and Napoleon realizes that the Russian is silently _laughing_ at him. Which quite honestly does a lot of complicated things to his insides.

“Coulda fooled me,” Napoleon mutters under his breath, allowing a small grin at his own expense. “So are you going to tell me what I did wrong, or just let me stew?”

“Maybe now I know it is an option—”

“Oh, screw you,” Napoleon laughs, flinging one of Illya’s captured pawns at him.

Illya ducks and leans over to retrieve it, and when he sits up again he’s openly laughing too, a broad smile on his handsome features, and oh, this is trouble. The worst kind of trouble. Napoleon feels breathless in the face of it; if he had thought the tiny smile he’d gotten earlier was warming, then this is like looking into the fucking sun.

“Ok, I’m gonna need a drink for this I think,” he says, which is the truth, although not quite for the obvious reasons. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”  
  
Illya frowns in consideration for a moment, then his lips curl into sly grin. “I suppose I may also need a drink if I am going to teach you chess tonight.”

“Ouch,” Napoleon gasps, gaping at him theatrically, “you know, when I invited you here I didn’t expect to be roasted mercilessly.”

“We are all disappointed sometimes,” Illya says, still smirking, and Napoleon can only shake his head.

He pours a couple of fingers of whiskey into each tumbler and returns to his seat, sliding one across the table toward Illya. The Russian takes a careful sip, considering the board in front of them, and then proceeds to explain in excruciating detail Napoleon’s every mistake. Napoleon wasn’t lying earlier when he had said he had a good idea of where he’d gone wrong, but it’s nice to get his thoughts confirmed all the same. It’s almost surprising, how candid he is; Napoleon is his competition after all, and he had expected that Illya might be a little cagey about revealing his thought processes. But now, in this moment, they don’t feel like competitors at all. They are just two people discussing a chess game. One that Napoleon might have had a better shot at winning if he hadn’t overthought his moves and tried to be fancy.

“It is late,” Illya says when they finish going over the game. “I should go.” He doesn’t stand up, though, doesn’t actually make an effort to leave, and Napoleon has never been one to let an opportunity pass by when it’s presented to him.  
  
“C’mon, just a quick game,” he presses as he resets the board, “you gotta give me a chance to regain a little of my shattered pride.”

Illya rolls his eyes, but fails to look all that put out by the suggestion. “Fine.”

This time Napoleon tries to stay out of his own head; just because it is Illya on the other side of the board isn’t a reason to start second guessing himself. It works—almost. The game is a lot closer, but the Russian still finds a way to out maneuver him in the end. He supposes he should be annoyed, it’s not like he _enjoys_ losing, but he can’t feel anything but exhilarated by the game. By how it had felt to play against Illya again, like a shot of adrenaline directly into his veins. It might be late, but Napoleon’s not sure he’ll be able to fall asleep any time soon. He’s going to be thinking about these games, and craving more, for hours.

If it’s any consolation, it is that Illya seems reluctant to end their night as well. He rises slowly when they finally run out of things to say about second match, dragging a finger along the edge of the chess board as he moves past it and walks toward the door.

“I’m not, by the way,” Napoleon says to his back, suddenly struck by a fit of too much honesty. Blame the whiskey, or the way he feels almost giddy after hours spent in the other man’s presence.

Illya pauses and turns to look at him, clearly confused. “Not what, Cowboy?”  
  
“Disappointed that you came tonight.”

“Oh,” Illya replies with a look that says he does not know what to do with this confession. He glances down at the floor, and when he speaks again it is so quiet Napoleon almost does not hear it. “Me neither.”

And then he is gone, disappearing through the door before Napoleon can even ask when or if they will ever do this again.

* * *

Napoleon had not been _waiting_ for the knock on his door the next night, certainly not. He certainly had not been staring absently at his chess board, not really seeing the pieces in front of him, thinking about how Illya had glared icily at him every time their paths brought them into any kind of proximity. Which seemed a little excessive, because Napoleon had done his best to keep away.

Napoleon also certainly does not leap to his feet when the knock comes, his heart off and racing like a shot, and he does not have an internal debate with himself about whether the embarrassment of answering the door too quickly is outweighed by the benefit of allowing Illya to get out of the hall before anyone sees him.

“I could start leaving the door unlocked when I’m here,” he offers, a little abruptly, when Illya comes in. And maybe that sounds a little forward, but he’s not really sure how to make it _not_ sound forward, so he just hopes that the other man understands what he means. 

Illya blinks at him, then gives a small nod. “If you like.”

This time, when Illya comes in he takes a bit of a tour around the room, not touching anything, but looking more carefully than he had the night before. Napoleon’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but he has a guess.

“The room isn’t bugged, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You check your room for bugs?” Illya asks, the surprise obvious in his voice.

“Of course I do, Peril. Everyone has heard the rumors about the KGB.” He doesn’t say that he only started checking after the last tournament, when Gaby had suggested that he might have made himself of interest to the Soviet government.

“The KGB are here to keep us from defecting, they do not bother with bugging mediocre American players.”

“ _Mediocre?_ ” Napoleon gasps, summoning his outrage past the smile that wants to fight its way onto his face. (God, when did he start _enjoying_ the teasing insults lobbed at him by this man?) “Well, I never. I’ve nearly beat you twice now.”

It is Illya’s turn to fight a smile, and he doesn’t fully succeed. “Not really, Cowboy.”

“What about good players, then?” Napoleon presses playfully.

“We do not need to _spy_ to win games,” Illya sighs, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever found a bug?”

“Well, no.”

“There is your answer.”

“Hmph,” Napoleon huffs. “I’m still going to keep checking.”

Illya shakes his head, looking amused. “Whatever makes you feel better, Cowboy.”

“What were you doing when you came in, if you weren’t looking for bugs?”

“Huh?” Illya says, looking a little caught out. He clears his throat and looks off across the room, avoiding Napoleon’s gaze. “Oh, nothing. Drink?”

Napoleon decides to let it go, if only because it seems unlikely he’ll be able to get anything out of Illya at this point. Instead he leans back onto the edge of the table and crosses his arms over his chest, watching as Illya walks over to the bar. “Plying me with my own liquor, are you? It won’t help you win tonight, I’ll have you know.”

The liquor might not help him win, but it doesn’t help him lose either. They play only a single match that night, one that stretches on for ages because Napoleon keeps trying ridiculous strategies that catch Illya off guard, but somehow he can never pin the Russian down either. Eventually, when he takes Illya’s last bishop, there simply aren’t enough pieces left on the board for a checkmate to be possible. Illya frowns at the board for a long time, like he can’t quite believe he allowed this to happen.

“Cheer up, Peril,” Napoleon grins, clapping him on the shoulder before he can think better of it. Illya flinches away from the contact and scowls. “You put up a better fight than Belinsky.”

That manages to make the corner of Illya’s mouth twitch, only a fraction, but it is enough to bolster Napoleon’s dubious feeling of victory for the draw. Hey, a half point is a half point. Not that he’s keeping score.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty much just an excuse for nonstop banter. 😂 Thank you so much for all your comments on the first chapter, I love love hearing from you all!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the course of true ~~love~~ friendship never did run smooth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a little longer than usual because, as I said before, CHATTY. 😂

He manages a real victory the next night, not in the first game they play—which he loses outright—but in the second, where he finally _finally_ catches the Russian off guard. Illya moves right into a trap and realizes immediately what he’s done, groaning, ‘ _that was a mistake_ ,’ before Napoleon can even make his next move. The end of the match comes swiftly after that.

“Congratulations, Cowboy,” Illya grumbles reluctantly. “Do not expect that to become a common occurrence.”

“Oh no?” Napoleon replies, unable to control the smile that’s taken over his face. A win is a win, even if it is on a silly error he probably wouldn’t make normally.

Illya raises his half-empty tumbler and gives it a shake, rattling the ice around inside it. “No drinking during the tournament games.”

“And here I thought you were just distracted by my dazzling good looks.”

That, predictably, makes Illya roll his eyes, but Napoleon almost thinks he sees the tips of his ears flush red. “Did you become more good looking in the last game?”

“I don’t know,” Napoleon answers, grinning roguishly as he crosses his arms on the table in front of him and leans forward. “You tell me.”

Somewhere in his head, he hears Gaby saying ‘ _hitting on a Soviet is actually going to get you killed._ ’ In public, maybe, but here, in private… well, he’s not so sure. For the most part, Illya seems to stoically weather his flirting without much of a reaction either way, but he certainly hasn’t appeared actually offended, so Napoleon figures there’s no harm done.

In any case, Illya’s face is blank when he deadpans, “No.”

“Maybe I just finally figured you out, hm?” Napoleon says as he sits back and begins resetting the board; there’s little use of talking about this particular game, when they both know exactly what happened.

“Unlikely.”

“Best two out of three?”

Illya looks at the clock, then back at the board, which Napoleon has just rotated to swap their sides. For a moment Napoleon thinks he’s going to refuse, but then he sighs and makes a ‘go on’ motion with his hand, so Napoleon decides on an opening and makes his first move.

The Russian had clearly not been _happy_ about the loss, but he’d taken it rather well, so his reaction to losing the third game of that night comes as a complete surprise. Perhaps it is because this time he doesn’t seem to see where he makes his error, continuing somewhat blithely down a path that won’t do him any good in the long run. Napoleon still isn’t entirely sure what Illya’s opinions are on commentary during the match itself, so he keeps his mouth shut and just continues his game.

The point at which Illya does finally realize what has happened, when there isn’t really anything he can do about it, is pretty obvious. His face, which had been almost what one might call _open_ after a couple of drinks, immediately shutters. He stares fixedly at the board for the rest of the game, never looking up at Napoleon, when usually he’d be watching as Napoleon considered his own moves. This time Napoleon’s face doesn’t fall into an easy grin when the match ends, even though he’s certainly thrilled by the result.

“Everything ok, Peril?” he asks hesitantly, his brow furrowed.

Illya almost startles, finally looking up from the board. His face is carefully blank, and though Napoleon can sense the storm of emotions underneath he can’t really discern them individually. “Fine,” Illya says sharply, “I’m fine. Was good game.”

Napoleon doesn’t entirely believe him, and his suspicion that something is wrong only deepens when Illya’s participation in the post-match discussion consists of only monosyllabic words and grunts. Clearly Illya hadn’t thought that Napoleon could actually beat him, not really, which isn’t great for Napoleon’s ego, but he supposes it makes sense. In tournaments the Soviets mostly lose to other Soviets, and the occasional other European, but very rarely to Americans. Until Napoleon, that is.

He’ll get used to it eventually, Napoleon reasons. You have to lose sometimes if you want to get better, after all, and though Illya had boasted that he was already the best, Napoleon was pretty sure it had been a joke.

Maybe he was wrong about that, though.

Illya doesn’t show up the next night. At first, as the hours tick on, Napoleon worries. Worries that maybe he shouldn’t have pushed so hard for a win (which is absurd), worries that he could have handled the afterward better (he doesn’t think so), even worries that Illya had gotten found out by the KGB (distinctly possible, but not something he wants to contemplate). Eventually he starts considering that maybe he was wrong about the Russian, in the end. If Illya couldn’t handle losing occasionally, then maybe he isn’t actually the person Napoleon thought he was. Had hoped he was.

And once Napoleon’s thoughts get onto this track, they start picking up steam as they roll thunderously downhill. What did Illya expect, that he could just waltz in here and win effortlessly? Did he really think that little of Napoleon? All that talk about wanting to discuss strategy, all that apparent openness: was it all a lie? Maybe he’d gone back to his fellow Soviets later and laughed about the stupid American who kept trying to beat him even though he didn’t have a chance. Well, who’s laughing now?

(In the back of his mind, Napoleon knows this last one is absurd; the last thing Illya would do is admit to anyone that he’d been playing secret matches against an American. It doesn’t stop him from thinking it, though.)

Napoleon drinks far too much whiskey and passes out absolutely furious. He wakes up in no better of a mood, and it doesn’t improve when he catches sight of Illya at the tournament. The Russian ignores him, as usual, and though Napoleon would like nothing better than to go chew him out, he resists. But that doesn’t stop Napoleon from glaring daggers at him all day.

By the time evening rolls around again, Napoleon is mostly angry at himself that he let Kuryakin get in his head like this, that he’s letting the asshole take up this much of his brainspace. But he’s also still plenty mad at Illya. So much so that when the soft knock comes he considers not answering it. He can’t help himself, though. _Fuck_.

Napoleon tears the door open and doesn’t wait before he turns around and stalks back into the room and straight to the bar, leaving Illya to follow behind him. Probably (definitely) he’s already had enough to drink tonight, and probably (definitely) more isn’t going to help anything, but he pours it anyway, if for no other reason than to have something to do that doesn’t involve looking at Illya.

“Look who deigned to show,” Napoleon says bitterly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What, did you decide you couldn’t bear the thought of letting me have the final win?”

“Cowboy,” Illya says hesitantly. “I could not get away last night.”

All at once, the righteous fury that Napoleon had been clinging to drains away like water through his fingers. Illya _couldn’t_ come, not that he hadn’t wanted to. Slowly, he turns to look at the other man, who is standing rather awkwardly in the center of room. He wouldn’t have expected that the imposing Russian could appear sheepish, and yet that’s the only word he can think of to describe it.

“What happened?”

“Maybe you heard, Sorokin had a shouting match with someone yesterday,” Illya sighs. “The KGB were watching closely all night for trouble. Made it impossible to sneak out.”

Napoleon feels like an idiot. Of course it would be something that had nothing to do with him, in the end. And yes, maybe it should worry him how quickly he was willing to forgive Illya, but he’s honestly too relieved to care. He huffs, shaking his head. “God, I thought—”

“You thought I could not handle you winning and was not coming back,” Illya finishes, his lips tipping into a smirk. “I am not that sore a loser, Cowboy.”

“Well, you certainly weren’t that graceful about it that night,” Napoleon retorts, a little defensively.

At that, a bit of the sheepishness returns, and he shrugs. “Surprised me.”

“And?”  
  
“And what?”

“Come on, I may not know you that well, but I know enough to be able to tell that something else is going on. Out with it,” Napoleon prompts.

Illya presses his lips together as if he’s not sure entirely how much to say, or how to say it. “Everybody loses sometimes. Bad matches, bad tournaments… the government, they understand that we will not always win. As long as you do not lose too much, they will continue to let you compete. But losing to an American, that is not so forgivable. And you are becoming—how do you say—thorn in our side. The Federation is not so interested in supporting players who cannot win against you.” He sighs again, looking frustrated. “It is all politics, should not have anything to do with chess.”

Napoleon stares at him for a long moment, letting this new information sink in. It appears that Gaby was right, after all: he’s on the Soviets’ radar, and not in a good way. Not that there _is_ a good way for an American to be on the Soviets’ radar. But it’s also hard not to feel a little chuffed that they actually see him as a threat now.

“So what you’re telling me is that you’re worried, because it turns out that I can, in fact, beat the mighty Peril,” he says eventually, trying to inject a little levity despite the grimness of what Illya just told him.

Illya makes a face. “Not _worried_. You win matches here, ok. It is late, we are drinking. But in the tournament it is different.”

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Napoleon grins.

“You should worry that I will learn all your tricks, Cowboy.”

“And what if I learn all of yours?”  
  
Illya smirks at that. “Russians do not have tricks. We have only strategy.”

“What you have is an ego the _size_ of Russia.”

“Says pot to kettle,” Illya huffs. “Now are we going to talk, or are we going to play?”

* * *

It seems absurd to say that they have a routine, and yet, as the tournament stretches on, that seems to be exactly what they have. Illya comes to Napoleon’s room almost every night, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, and on the days when he doesn’t show Napoleon no longer assumes the worst. Slowly but surely, the awkward tension of two rivals who didn’t really know each other smooths away, leaving an easy camaraderie in its place. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the way they talk about the game—sometimes subtle, nuanced discussions, sometimes heated arguments—changes too, bleeding into the matches themselves. Wins get traded back and forth without much comment, now, though neither of them will pass up the opportunity to tease the other for silly errors or ridiculous strategies.

In fact, the only thing that doesn’t change is the rush Napoleon gets from spending time with Illya. It’s a feeling that one could very easily become addicted to, if one wasn’t careful, and Napoleon isn’t too oblivious to realize that he might have already passed the point of no return. It doesn’t help that the Russian is so goddamn good looking—with those deep, glacial blue eyes that seem to bore right into his very soul, if you’ll excuse him for being a bit overwrought—and that he’s even more handsome when he’s laughing, or grinning triumphantly, or, lord help him, when he’s grudgingly impressed by something Napoleon has done.

Ok, so he has definitely passed the point of no return.

Napoleon isn’t an idiot. He knows the bourgeoning friendship between them is a fragile thing, that one wrong step could make the whole thing collapse like a house of cards. He also knows that even though Illya seems relatively unperturbed by his more flirtatious comments and innuendos, the chances of the Russian responding positively to any move Napoleon might make are actually less than zero. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting more, from wishing for a touch that lasts longer than the brush of fingers over a chess pieces or a passed tumbler of whiskey, or that Illya might some day let him beyond the careful walled garden of chess talk. And it certainly doesn’t stop the deep ache of that want from growing more ardent with every passing day.

For now he resolves to take what he is offered, which is far more than what he ever thought he’d get. Napoleon’s problem, though, is that he can never quite seem to leave well enough alone. Sometimes it’s a good thing: one of the reasons he’s been so successful in chess is his desire to push the boundaries and discover new ways to think about the game. But other times, that inherent curiosity gets him into a lot of trouble. His mother always used to tell him to count his lives, because he must surely be a cat with nine of them to have survived as long as he had.

It takes less than two weeks for it to get him into trouble this time.

To be fair, Napoleon thought it was a pretty innocuous question. The game before them is slow, almost aimless, and they’d been talking idly about some of the mistakes they’d been prone to when they first started playing. It seems natural, then, to ask something he’d been curious about for some time.

“Who taught you to play chess, Peril?”

Illya’s mouth tightens unexpectedly in response, and he’s silent for a moment as he stares down at the chessboard. “My father.”

“Were you very young?” Napoleon asks, despite the warning signs.  
  
“You ask too many questions, Cowboy,” Illya growls. He draws himself up straighter, shoulders squaring, and his relaxed demeanor goes distinctly frigid.

Napoleon doesn’t really know why the mood in the room seemed to suddenly shift, but he makes a mental note to perhaps not pursue that line of questioning. Fathers are tricky things, after all, and despite how close they’ve grown over chess, their personal lives are a topic that they’ve never really strayed to. Except it’s not fifteen minutes later, when they’ve finally fallen back into a somewhat stilted conversation, that he can’t help but poke at the subject, just a little.

“Do you still play with your dad?”

Illya slams his hands down on the table and stands up abruptly, making the chess pieces hop on the board and nearly sending the chair clattering to the floor behind him. There is real fury in his eyes now, unlike anything Napoleon’s seen from him before, and Napoleon realizes too late that he has made a significant mistake.

“I told you. Not. To ask. Questions,” Illya grits out between clenched teeth.When he pulls back from the table his hands curl automatically into fists, and Napoleon raises his palms flat in front of himself.

“Ok, ok, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, as placatingly as possible. Illya just stares at him, eyes hard, looking distinctly _not_ placated. Napoleon makes a small gesture toward the board in front of him. “Can we just…?”

Illya’s eyes drop to the set, where their game sits unresolved, and frowns. “No, I don’t think so.”

Well, that was certainly not the answer he’d been hoping for. A moment later Illya is off, moving swiftly toward the door, and because Napoleon has never actually had that much of a sense of self-preservation, he makes a grab at the other man’s wrist as he attempts to blow past. Illya tries to yank his hand away but Napoleon holds firm, scared more of what will happen if he lets Illya leave like this than of what the Russian might do to him.

“Illya, just— wait a sec, would you?”

“Let go of me,” Illya replies, his voice low and dangerous.

Napoleon, like an idiot, ignores him and clings stubbornly. “Look, I really am sorry, and I promise not to bring it up again, ok?”

“This was a mistake,” Illya mutters, and because he’s resolutely not looking at Napoleon now, he doesn’t see him flinch at that. This time, when he tugs his wrist away, Napoleon is too distracted to hold firm.

“Wait— what do you mean, a mistake?” he calls out before Illya makes it to the door.

Illya pauses, spinning back toward him and fixing him with an accusing glare. “I should have known it was never just chess. What will you do with the information you gain, hmm? Take it back to your countrymen, use it to discover more about my— my _weaknesses_?”

“What? No! I’m not spying, for Christ’s sake, I was just curious! I just— just wanted to know more about you,” Napoleon says, his voice faltering at the end as he realizes how that sounds. And then, because he figures he might as well go all in at this point, he adds, “because I like you, Peril. Because I always want to know more about my friends. Terrible habit, I’m afraid, you can ask Gaby—”

“Goodbye, Solo,” Illya interrupts before he can keep digging himself farther into this hole.

Napoleon’s mouth is still hanging open when the door slams behind Illya, frozen in the face of that word. _Goodbye_. Not good night. Not see you in a couple of days when I cool down. There is a finality to that word that chills him to the bone, and he is left with a growing dread that his insatiable curiosity might have finally cost him something that really mattered.

* * *

“You weren’t at the afternoon strategy session,” Sorokin says when Illya answers the door to his hotel room.

Illya grunts noncommittally at this, leaving the door open as he turns to walk back inside. As expected, Sorokin follows him and heads straight to the bar, where he pours himself several fingers of whatever vodka the hotel stocked there. Illya hasn’t touched it, but he knows it’s unlikely that it’s any good.

“Did Oleg send you?” Illya asks.

Sorokin shakes his head, barely glancing at him. “No. I was just concerned.”

_Concerned_. Right. Illya is friendly enough with the other Soviet players, but he’s not friends with them, not really. Not enough that they check up on each other out of the goodness of their hearts. If Sorokin was concerned, it had more to do with whether Illya might finally let him win more of their games, which, unfortunately for him, is not likely.

“I was not feeling well,” Illya offers when the other man has turned toward him again, which is as close to the truth as he is getting.

The truth, of course, is that Illya had been so upset after leaving Napoleon’s room—upset at the American, for pushing; upset at himself, for letting it get to that point—that he’d hardly slept the night before, and it was only luck that he didn’t have a match scheduled that day. The truth is that he’d only been able to stand being a spectator at the tournament that morning for a few hours before the weight of the tortured looks Napoleon was giving him had become too much and he’d fled back to the relative safety of his room. He certainly couldn’t handle the idea of sitting around and discussing that day’s games with the other Soviets, so he’d skipped the meeting, damn the consequences.

Although, apparently those consequences might be nothing more than Sorokin coming to interrogate him. The other man takes a seat at the table where Illya’s travel chess set is set up, crossing one leg over the other and staring critically down at the pieces.

“Huh,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Illya just suppresses a huff of exasperation. “What.”

“Either you’ve been playing through the same boring game repeatedly, or you haven’t moved these pieces in more than a week.”

“I’ve moved them,” Illya retorts defensively.

In response, the other man picks up a knight, revealing a neat circle of clean chessboard underneath, and arcs a single eyebrow at him. “Argentina is dusty.”

Illya snatches the piece out of his hand and drops it carelessly back on the board, leaving smears in the fine layer of dust that has accumulated there. “What I do—or do not do—in my free time is none of your business.”

“Just odd, is all,” Sorokin shrugs. He swirls his tumbler thoughtfully before taking a sip, then makes a face. “Fuck, this vodka is terrible. Haven’t you got anything better?”

“No,” Illya answers. Why should he bother stocking the liquor in his own room, when he does all of his drinking at Napoleon’s? “No one is forcing you to sit here and drink shitty vodka. You could go drink whatever you want in your own room.”

Sorokin’s brow furrows. “Trying to get rid of me, for what? So you can sit around by yourself and _not_ play chess?” Illya opens his mouth to protest, but the other man holds up a hand before he can speak. “You know what? I don’t care. Forget I asked. Far be it for me to question why the man who wants to be the next World Champion is not practicing. You’re still stomping me in this tournament, so I guess whatever you _are_ doing is working for you.” He pushes himself up, leaving the half-full tumbler of the maligned vodka on the table, and smooths a hand over the front of his suit.

“Sorokin, don’t—”

“I’m not going to _tell_ on you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sorokin says dryly. “Not that there’s anything to tell. Oleg would hardly believe me anyway. Since when has anyone been able to pry a chess set out of _your_ hands? I wouldn’t recommend skipping tomorrow’s session, though.”

“I was not planning to,” Illya grits out.

“Well, then, I suppose I will leave you to… whatever it is that you do in the evenings.”

Illya uses the excuse of him leaving to walk to the door and peek out into the hallway; sure enough, there is one KGB agent at the end of the hall, no doubt waiting to make sure Sorokin returns to his room. Which means that he won’t be watching Illya’s hallway for several minutes at least. It’s not the only chance Illya would have to leave—they don’t watch the doors for very long, because they know that the chess players are largely homebodies who will hole up in their rooms playing chess and go to sleep early—but if he does go now, he would get a few additional hours with Napoleon this evening.

Not that Illya should want that. He shouldn’t even be going at all, much less early. He should take his own advice from the previous night, when he told himself that the whole thing was a massively stupid mistake. Of course he’d realized right away that his knee-jerk reaction had been off base; even if people had been trying to use his father’s disgrace against him for so long it was second nature to expect it, the American clearly had no knowledge of his family history and no way of realizing what a sore spot he’d touched on. But that realization didn’t stop his late-night visits to Napoleon’s room from being a terrible idea. Worst one he’s ever had, certainly. He’d be much better off cutting off contact with the other man and severing whatever delicate bond had begun forming between them.

For better or worse, there is little chance of that. There is something about the American that draws him in, that makes it impossible to stay away, even when he knows he should. Being around Napoleon—talking to him, playing chess with him, hell, even _losing_ to him, at least in their private games—makes Illya feel warm and alive and happy in a way he hasn’t in a long, long time. He can’t explain it, and he certainly can’t allow himself to name it, but it’s there all the same.

Napoleon’s door is unlocked, which in a way isn’t surprising, but Illya had half expected a repeat of the night when he’d reappeared after his first loss and found it bolted shut. The American looks up as Illya slips inside, his face lighting up with surprise that morphs quickly into delight before he can reign it in. Illya sees it, though, and it makes something twist, deep in his gut.

“You’re here early, Peril,” Napoleon says lightly, a careful smile on his face. He’d been relaxing in an armchair, reading a book, which he sets to the side as he rises and moves toward Illya, a little cautiously.

Illya shrugs, hoping Napoleon can’t sense the tension still wound up in his posture. “I had a chance to get out, so I took it.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed. I— I wasn’t sure you’d be coming at all, actually.”

“I…” Illya begins, but his voice trails off, at a loss for words. Napoleon is staring up at him with those deep blue eyes—which his suit had so exquisitely complimented today, like he’d been _trying_ to torture Illya—full of hope and concern and uncertainty that the American can’t fully hide, and it seems to erase every excuse he’d thought up for his behavior the previous night from his head.

Unfortunately, Napoleon seems to take his hesitation as a cue to fill up the silence. “Look, I am sorry, really, I didn’t mean anything by it, I promise—”

“No, Cowboy, I am the one who should apologize,” Illya makes himself say. “I am sorry for accusing you of spying. And for leaving so abruptly. It is only, the things you were asking… I cannot discuss them.”

“See, you say things like and it makes me think you’re actually a secret agent or something,” Napoleon teases, the small, cautious smile on his face making it clear he is trying to nudge them back to their usual joking banter.

Illya huffs a small laugh, shaking his head as he stares off across the room. “Not an agent. It is not really secret, even. I just… can’t.”

“It’s ok, Peril. You don’t have to,” Napoleon says softly. He’s standing closer now, and he extends a hand like he wants to touch Illya on the shoulder, to offer a gesture of comfort, but at the last minute his hand halts in midair as he seems to think better of it.

Illya wishes he hadn’t. His body aches for Napoleon’s touch, and the realization of that slams into him with the force of a freight train. All at once he can hardly breathe, confronted as he is with the inescapable fact that he _wants_ the man standing in front of him with a startling intensity. This desire isn’t new, he can see that now; it had been lurking there since those early days in Hastings, almost since he’d first started paying attention to the American. But it had been ignorable, easily written off as just a fascination with his chess game, and anyway not something that would have been even remotely conceivable.

It is _terrifying_. He wants to flee, because this is wrong and impossible and an aberration, but he can’t. He can’t do that to Napoleon, especially not after last night, even when he feels like now he’s here under false pretenses. Napoleon might flirt with him, sure, but that’s just how the American is. He’s always just trying to get a rise out of Illya, he doesn’t mean it, not really. He doesn’t mean it like Illya wants him to mean it, a raw, visceral hunger that feels like it might consume him entirely if left unchecked. So Illya does his best to shove the unwanted urges deep, deep down inside him, to force himself back to the present situation, and mercifully, though he feels like he’s been frozen here for minutes, only seconds appear to have passed.

Napoleon's hand curls up and pulls away. “The topic of fathers is off limits, I get it. Well, not entirely, I never knew my father, but I know enough people with… _complex_ relationships with theirs.”  
  
“I thought your father was a janitor?”

Too late, Illya realizes what he’s just admitted. Because Napoleon had not told him that, he’d read it in a magazine article he’d managed to get his hands on through a black market dealer in Moscow after the last tournament. (Not a chess journal, but some glossy American trash, in which the interviewer clearly had no idea what chess was all about and seemed more interested in where Napoleon got his suits. Illya had, embarrassingly, read every word, multiple times, which he couldn’t even excuse as research.)  
  
Napoleon grins wickedly, cat-like, and takes the opportunity to pounce on this information. “Why Peril, you’ve been reading up on me. I’m flattered,” he says, eyes practically twinkling with mirth. Then he takes a sip of his drink, his expression sobering a bit, and gives a small nod. “Right, that is what I tell the press. He was basically the only father I ever had.”

“Oh,” Illya replies, unsure of what else to say. It’s not like he’s entitled to ask for any more, given his own unwillingness to talk about his family.

“But I won’t bore you with my sob story,” Napoleon continues dismissively, one of those easy, fake smiles that he likes to hide behind sliding onto his face again. “Safe to say that it’s not what gets printed. Americans love a story about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, but they love a nuclear family even more, so I tell them what they want to hear. No one wants the real Napoleon Solo.”

_I do_ , a small voice, deep within Illya, says. It is a difficult thing to admit, even to himself. Perhaps especially to himself. Instead, he nods and quietly says, “I understand.”

He might not actually, since he has no idea what Napoleon’s real story is, but he can certainly understand the impulse to hide your past from the scrutinizing gaze of the public eye. The difference is that Illya doesn’t lie to the press; he just doesn’t talk to them at all.

“I could certainly use another drink,” Napoleon announces as he steps toward the bar. “You?”  
  
Illya nods as he takes the excuse to wander over to the table where the chess set sits and realizes that none of the pieces have been moved since the previous night. Well, except Napoleon had picked up the knight that had toppled over when Illya had taken out his frustrations on the table. He barely remembers what had been happening in the game now, and it takes him a moment of study now to recall what his strategy had been.

“You didn’t reset the board,” he says, somewhere between an observation and a question, when Napoleon joins him and hands him a tumbler.

“I guess I hoped it was more of an adjournment. Unless you’d rather not finish this one…?”

“No,” Illya jumps in, shaking his head. “We can finish it. Though now that I look I am not so sure that my strategy was a good one.”

Napoleon tries—and fails—to fight back a smug grin at that, like he’d come to the same conclusion overnight but doesn’t want to let on he had. Once, that smile would have irritated Illya to no end, but now he’s just so goddamn relieved that it has replaced the phony smiles from earlier that he doesn’t even care it’s at his expense.

It’s fine. He’ll get the American in the next game, or the one after that. And if not, well, the night will hardly be a waste when he knows he’ll leave warmed through by how Napoleon’s smile will become loose and radiant the more he drinks and the more he wins, and when he somehow manages both of those things together.

Fuck. He really is in a _lot_ of trouble.

* * *

The final match of the tournament ends in a stalemate.

In a way, it is the first real test since their very first match against each other in Hastings. Sure, they’ve played quite a few games in the last month, but never with the focus and determination that a real tournament match brings out. Now there is no drinking, or chatting, or trying out unusual gambits, and they have both learned enough about each others’ games to anticipate their opponent’s moves quite accurately.

Illya is not entirely sure what to think, in the end. The draw makes them co-champions of this particular tournament, so the Federation can’t say that he lost to the American, but Illya cannot entirely claim victory, either. It’s unclear what, if any, consequences there might be, but that probably depends on his performance in the upcoming World Championship games. He feels surprisingly ok with it, although that might have something to do with how goddamn _happy_ Napoleon clearly is when they finish the match. He is beaming like he won the tournament outright, and that absolutely should _not_ make Illya want to grin back in response, but against all the odds, it does. It is only very careful, well-honed control that keeps his face neutral when he shakes Napoleon’s hand afterward.

There should be no reason for him to visit Napoleon that night; it is not as if either of them would be interested in playing more chess after expending that much mental energy on their final game that day, and ostensibly playing chess is the entire reason that Illya visits. Going without that excuse runs the risk of being a little too telling. Plus, Napoleon is probably out celebrating. There aren’t a lot of Americans at the tournament this year, and honestly Illya has no idea how many of them Napoleon is actually friends with, but surely he will be out drinking regardless. So really, there’s no harm in just… checking, because Illya will no doubt find his door locked and that will be the end of it.

Napoleon’s door is unlocked, though. And once Illya tries the handle, he has little choice but to go in, because the American will have heard him. He won’t stay long, he tells himself.

“Didn’t get enough chess today, Peril?” Napoleon asks when Illya pushes the door open.

He’s sitting in the armchair with his waistcoat still on and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, like Illya has often found him in the evenings during this tournament, although this time he’s reading the newspaper instead of a chess book. When Illya approaches he tosses the paper onto the side table next to him and rises, grabbing a nearly empty tumbler as he does so.

“I only came to give you my congratulations,” Illya lies, but it sounds unconvincing even to himself.

“Funny, I thought you did that after the match.”  
  
Illya shrugs. “You are not out celebrating,” he says, almost accusatorially, in an attempt to turn the conversation around.

“I went to dinner with some of the others, but to be honest with you they don’t make for all that interesting company,” Napoleon replies nonchalantly.

“So you decided to come back and drink alone in your room.”

Napoleon quirks an eyebrow at him, then turns away to busy himself at the bar. “I suppose I might have been hoping for some better company,” he mutters.

Despite the fact that he had shown up tonight for similar reasons, Illya does not know what to do with this admission that Napoleon might want more from him than just chess. It is dangerous, this idea that they might be able to have such a thing, and one he should not allow to take root in his mind. They were born on two opposing sides of a conflict much bigger than them, and though it may be easy for them to forget when they are ensconced in a hotel room half the globe away from either of their countries, the world around them never does.

Maybe just for tonight, though, he can pretend it is not so.

Napoleon glances over at him, a cautious smile curving his lips, giving Illya the unmistakable but odd feeling that the American's thoughts had been following a similar thread. “Get you a drink?” he offers. “I’m afraid I might have killed what was left of the whiskey.”

“Gin, then,” Illya answers, pushing all of his misgivings to the back of his mind for now.  
  
“You know, it was my understanding that you Russians were more partial to vodka.”

“This is not real vodka, Cowboy,” Illya scoffs. “Terrible. One day, when you come to Moscow, I will show you what vodka should be.”

Napoleon pauses, only for a second, as he’s pouring the gin, and the curl of his lips turns almost melancholy. “I doubt very much that you would actually be able to do that, Peril, but I would certainly look forward to it. _If_ I ever get to Moscow.”

“When,” Illya repeats stubbornly. “You win too much not to be invited for a tournament sooner or later. And there is always the World Chess Championship.”

“Much as I would love to fly to Moscow in a couple of months, that is not going to happen.”

“Was talking about three years from now, actually, but have you considered it? Coming to Moscow for the championship games this year?”

Illya is not sure if Napoleon fully comprehends what he just implied—that in three years time, Napoleon himself might be playing in the finals of the championship, potentially against Illya, if he manages to win this year—because the other man just snorts. “My government is far less enthusiastic about chess than yours, I’m afraid. They’re not going to send me halfway around the world for a tournament I’m not even playing in, and I don’t have that kind of cash laying around. You’ll just have to compete without my moral support, Peril. Don’t worry, I’m sure you can manage it.”

“You are sure, are you?”

“Look, I obviously haven’t played Belinsky as many times as I’ve played you, but honestly, I don’t think he stands a chance.”

Illya hums uncertainly. “He beat me in the last Soviet tournament in Sochi.”

“Well, that was before you started training with me,” Napoleon grins.

“Training,” Illya deadpans, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Is that what we are doing, Cowboy?”

“What else would it be?”

That is the question, isn’t it? What have they been doing here, really, and what, if anything, is this nebulous _thing_ that has grown between them? Illya trains with his Soviet teammates, he trains with retired players, and none of those training sessions feel like what he does with Napoleon. Never before has he spent training sessions drinking and laughing and talking over the match, and at the same time, rarely before has he come out of them feeling like he has pushed himself as a player. So no, Illya is not sure if he would call what they did in the evenings during this tournament _training_ , but he also has no idea what to call it instead.

Illya shrugs as he accepts the tumbler of gin from Napoleon, and he does not think he imagines that the brush of their fingertips lingers longer than usual. “I suppose so,” he allows. But now Napoleon is staring at him, something heavy in his gaze, almost like he is holding back from saying what he wants to. Illya swallows, and casts about for something to break the tension. “But usually training sessions do not involve so many drinks.”

“Maybe not _your_ training sessions,” Napoleon retorts as he takes a sip. Some of the intensity has left his expression now, and the rest fades as a mischievous smile begins to take over his face. “So what’s so special about Russian vodka, anyway? I thought the whole point was to not have any flavor. You know, to be as boring as possible.”

Napoleon is clearly trying to push the topic back onto firmer footing, which Illya appreciates, though the sheer audacity of that statement makes him sputter in indignation. “ _Boring?_ Clearly you have never had real vodka, Cowboy. Or else you have no taste.”

“Well that is not something I have ever been accused of before,” Napoleon laughs, light and open. “So I suppose I will have to bow to your vodka expertise and trust that you know what you are talking about.”

An answering smile curls onto Illya’s lips, unable to be suppressed even if he wanted to. “You will see, when you come to Moscow.”

“Well, I look forward to it, some day,” Napoleon murmurs, and this time, when he says it, it sounds like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note: Napoleon's role as disruptor to the Soviets is based somewhat on the American Bobby Fischer, who was the first person in a long time to challenge their supremacy in the game (he became the first non-Soviet World Champion in 24 years in 1972). It is true that Soviets in the 60s and 70s who lost to him were basically blackballed by the Russian chess federation, especially as he became more dominant in the game. They were considered to not be competitve anymore, and were seldom permitted travel outside of the Soviet Union for tournaments. This became an issue when Fischer refused to defend his Championship title in 1975, because the new World Champion (by default), Anatoly Karpov, could not be said to have truly won it from him.
> 
> Also, the World Chess Championship runs on a three-year cycle. Illya is about to compete in the 1966 Championship (though you already know the outcome of that if you remember back to the very beginning of this work). Napoleon qualified for the 1969 Championship cycle by winning the US National Championship in 1965, though there are a bunch more hurdles for him to get over. But there is a LOT more on the road to the 1969 Championship to come in this story!
> 
> ****
> 
> I had to throw in a few moments of light angst for you, lol. But oh, we're getting closer! And also you get some hints of backstory in this one; I promise that you'll hear all of it, eventually. Next chapter we catch up to the Piatigorsky Cup that you got a snippet of at the beginning. Thank you for all of your comments and kudos! I'd love to hear what you think, even if it's just a keyboard smash or string of emojis. 😘


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fallout from Napoleon & Illya's match on the second day of the tournament is more wide-ranging than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we've "caught up" to where we started, the very first scene of this work; this chapter picks up not too long after that section. And I realized I said I was going to give warnings about the rating but it's also really hard to do that without also giving spoilers. So let me just say that the work _may or may not_ earn its rating in this chapter, but also whatever _may or may not_ happen is not a large part of the chapter either. Just, you know. In case you usually read these at work or something.

_2nd Piatigorsky Cup, 1966_  
_Santa Monica, California_

Napoleon isn’t expecting the knock that comes on his door late that night. He has half a mind to tell whoever it is to fuck off; he’s already half-asleep after far too much drinking in celebration of his victory. Not that it means much, on the second day of the tournament—so much could change, by the end—but on the other hand, it means a _lot_. He should have stopped hours ago, but people kept buying him drinks, and who was he to refuse them? He can’t help grinning when he thinks about that day’s game, and apparently he’s still grinning like an idiot when he opens the door to find a surly-looking Russian on the other side of it.

“ _Peril?!_ ” he hisses, the grin sliding off his face as his eyes go wide. “What are you doing here?” He grabs Illya by the arm and hauls him bodily into the room, looking back down the hallway before he slams the door behind them.

His appearance now is all the more surprising because Napoleon hadn’t been sure that the Russian would be able to get away from his KGB handlers at all. During the first two days of the tournament Napoleon had seen them watching the Soviet players like hawks, much moreso than they had in Argentina. He supposes it’s not surprising, given that they’re on American soil; there’s always the threat of defection, even though to this point no Soviet player had ever attempted it, as far as he knew (the thought that perhaps one _had_ attempted it, unsuccessfully, and was currently rotting away in a gulag, was not a pleasant one). It seemed likely that there would be little chance for Illya to escape their scrutiny, but apparently he had managed it.

And now he is standing in Napoleon’s hotel room, looking utterly put-together like he always does, despite the fact that it’s nearly three in the morning. His suit is still somehow perfectly pressed, as if wrinkles wouldn’t dare to mark him, which is in stark contrast to Napoleon’s current rumpled state; his shirt is half untucked and unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, his hair thoroughly ruffled and escaping his pomade. There might be lipstick on his collar, and he definitely lost his tie at some point that night. He hopes, perhaps somewhat futilely, that Gaby has it.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Illya mutters as he looks around the room. It takes Napoleon a moment to remember that he had asked a question. “You didn’t leave the door unlocked.”  
  
“One, you might notice that it’s a little later than usual, and two, I didn’t know if you’d be able to sneak out. Or even if you still wanted to.”

Illya gives him a look that seems to say ‘ _of course I wanted to, idiot_ ,’ and Napoleon doesn’t really know what to do with that, especially when it’s paired with the unmistakable tension in the Russian’s body and the fact that he is there in the middle of the goddamn night. He suspects, of course, that this visit has something to do with their match earlier that day, and that is pretty much confirmed when Illya gruffly asks, “Why were you smiling?”  
  
Napoleon huffs at that and walks over to the bar cart, because although he certainly doesn’t need to drink more, he also certainly needs a drink for this. “Why do you think?”

“It is not the first time you’ve beaten me.”

“First time it’s counted for something,” Napoleon shrugs. “First time anyone _knows_.”

Illya scowls darkly. “Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah, ok, but surely they’re not going to be angry about one game—”

The rest of whatever he was going to say is lost when Illya comes barreling toward him, pushing him backward against the wall, and Napoleon considers the possibility that this might be the moment of his death. He knows Illya has a temper, has heard the stories of his earlier days and has gotten hints of it in some of their earlier interactions, but he’s never actually seen it on full display until this moment. Illya fists his hand into the open front of his shirt, knuckles pressed against bare skin, and practically snarls at him.

“ _One game_ can make or break a championship. One game is the beginning of the end.”

“I think you’re maybe being a little dramatic,” Napoleon tries, aiming to lighten the mood and utterly failing.

Illya just growls. “You do not _understand_.”

“Ok, yeah, maybe I don’t, but c’mon. You’re the reigning World Champion! They can’t do anything to you for another three years at least.”

“Is this all a _joke_ to you?” Illya demands, shoving his fist harder into Napoleon’s sternum. “Just some— some idle amusement?”

It is Napoleon’s turn to scowl, and he feels his cheeks flush with anger. “You _know_ it’s not. This game is _everything_ to me.”

He makes a grab at Illya’s wrist, trying to wrench his hand away, but he is too drunk and the Russian is too strong. All he succeeds in doing is making Illya press closer, and abruptly a completely different heat flares within him. His breath catches in his throat, and something changes in Illya’s demeanor, too; the thread of tension unravels out of his posture as his body almost melts against Napoleon’s, and his grip slackens, though Napoleon makes no move to pry his hand away now. Illya’s eyes travel unmistakably to his parted lips and then drop to his half-bared chest before they flick back up to meet his gaze, and Napoleon ceases to breathe entirely.

Suddenly Illya surges forward, capturing Napoleon’s mouth with his in a fierce, desperate kiss. It starts out closed-mouthed, hard and unyielding, but Napoleon slides his tongue along the seam of Illya’s lips and when they part to admit him Illya presses even closer, tipping his head to slot their mouths tightly together. Their tongues tangle and Illya’s teeth tug at his lip, and Napoleon finds himself moaning in an embarrassingly wanton manner.

“Fuck, _Illya_ ,” Napoleon gasps as the Russian mouths his way across his jaw and onto his neck, biting down hard on the column of muscle just below his ear and then tonguing over the mark he leaves behind. “That’s— that’s going to _show_.”

“I _know_ ,” Illya growls.

And fuck if that doesn’t make him _ache_ with need even harder. His hand tightens in Illya’s hair, giving an experimental tug that draws a satisfying groan from his throat, and Illya grinds his hips forward in response, rubbing the hard line of his erection against Napoleon’s through the thin fabric of their suit pants.

Things seem to fall apart quickly, after that. In the space between one moment and the next his shirt is fully unbuttoned and his belt is undone, and Illya’s hands are sliding across the skin of his abdomen and dipping tantalizingly below his waistline. Napoleon hastily tugs Illya’s shirt from his pants, unbuckling his belt and thumbing the button of his trousers open so that he can slip his hand inside.

His fingers close around Illya’s cock, but he barely gets in a stroke before Illya is batting his hand away. He thinks, somewhat deliriously, that there must be some obscure line that he’s crossed, that even though it seemed like there could be no mistaking Illya’s intentions he had succeeded in doing so, but then Illya is shoving down their pants and pressing their cocks together and spitting into his palm before he wraps one large hand around them both—

And a wave of pleasure crashes through Napoleon, knocking the air from his lungs and making his head spin. Illya hisses against his skin where his face is buried in the crook of Napoleon’s neck as his hips buck forward, fucking up into his grip. There’s not enough slick and his movements are jerky, but it burns in the best way and Napoleon never wants it to end. He curls his own hand around Illya’s, interlacing their fingers, which makes Illya swear fiercely in Russian and pump his hips even harder against the pressure. Napoleon isn’t going to last, but it doesn’t really matter. A few moments later Illya comes with a shout, spilling hot and slick over their joined fists, and it is enough to send Napoleon over the edge as well.

“ _Oh god_ ,” he wails, shuddering, as his orgasm burns through him with a searing intensity. It takes several minutes before he comes back to himself and realizes what they just did. Illya is still collapsed against him, his face buried against Napoleon’s neck as he heaves deep, unsteady breaths. Napoleon lets his head thunk back against the wall, staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling. “Oh, _god_.”

* * *

The room where he is playing this morning is _far_ too bright. There is large bank of windows along one entire wall, letting the relentless southern California sun flood into the space to reflect off the board and blind him. He doesn’t know why someone doesn’t pull the damned curtains, but then again no one looks as quite bothered by the sun as he does.

Fuck, his head is pounding.

It’s obvious his opponent can tell, too. Sorokin hasn’t been able to hide his smug smile since the moment he spotted the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble he’d hadn’t had the time to shave off this morning. And now, in his clearly compromised state, he’s played himself into a corner. Sorokin’s smile gets bigger with every move, and he wants to knock it off his weaselly face.

Staying up that late, drinking that much—before _this_ match, especially—had very clearly been a mistake, and not the only one he’d made last night. The other chooses that moment to walk into the room, looking infuriatingly put-together. His suit is perfectly pressed, his hair carefully combed into place, and his jaw clean-shaven. In fact, the only sign of their previous activities is a dark, mouth-shaped bruise marking the pale column of his neck, just below his right ear.

Heat flares low in his gut at the memory, and blue eyes flick over to lock onto his, which certainly doesn’t help matters. For a moment he imagines that he can still smell the scent of his cologne on his skin, which is impossible.

“Kuryakin,” Sorokin prompts.

Illya startles, looking back down at the clock to find more than a minute has passed. Fuck. With Napoleon’s win in the second round, he needs to at least play this game to a draw if he’s going to have a hope of taking the title. Which he can certainly do, if he just concentrates. Sorokin is weakest in his endgame, he tends to get cocky and make little errors that are obvious if you know how to look for them. Illya will find them.

He can feel the weight of Napoleon’s gaze on him, can practically sense the American’s analysis of the board as he draws closer. Somehow—in a way he very much does not want to contemplate—that weight is comforting. Illya imagines that this is one of their evening games, even though neither of them would let the board get into such a state, normally. Their argument over strategy plays in his head: Napoleon would point out the weakness of the combined positions of Illya’s rook, bishop, and pawn, and Illya in turn would note that the apparent strength of his opponent’s knight actually makes him vulnerable to the right attack.

Of course. Why hadn’t he see it before? The corner of his mouth twitches upward as he makes his move, and he shoots a surreptitious glance toward Napoleon. He can see the moment of realization when the other man understands his strategy and his mouth curls into a knowing grin. Warmth blooms in Illya’s chest—the connection and camaraderie that he has never really experienced with anyone else, not like this—only to be replaced moments later by an icy spike of terror. As far as Illya can tell, no one else has figured out his strategy here, not even his countrymen, who should know his game better than anyone. That this American could be in his head like this, that Illya let him get there, is more than disconcerting.

Whatever they had started in Argentina had been a mistake, which was a conclusion he’d come to in the intervening months when he’d had the benefit of time and distance. A chance to step back with a clearer head and look critically at what had happened. He had been able to convince himself that it hadn’t really meant anything, that it had been nothing more than an amusing diversion, a curiosity that was now satisfied. After all, it had almost cost him that tournament, and clearly if he wasn’t careful it was going to cost him this one, too. And if all those terrifying feelings that he’d worked so hard to forget had come flooding back the moment he’d spotted Napoleon two days ago, then his liquor-fueled visit to Napoleon’s room last night more than proved that he needs to keep his head down and stay away from the infuriatingly alluring American. Surely it won’t be that hard, if he puts his mind to it.

Illya returns his attention to the game in front of him, doing his best to ignore their spectators. It takes another ten moves before Sorokin realizes what is happening, and only another five after that for him to concede the match. Illya shakes his hand, graciously accepts congratulations from a few members of the audience whose faces he barely notices, and avoids Napoleon’s gaze as lets himself be whisked away by his KGB handlers.

* * *

“C’mon, Illya should still be playing,” Napoleon says when he collects Gaby after his match.

It had been a short one, thank goodness; he’s in far from his best form this morning, for myriad reasons that he’s been trying not to dwell on too much. The young Russian who had been his opponent had used a pretty classic opening strategy, common enough among the Soviets, and had been easily thrown off by a few choice maneuvers on Napoleon’s part. After that, he could have played the rest of the game in his sleep.

Napoleon doesn’t mean to be cocky, but, well, it’s _true_.

Besides the fact that he’s certainly in no shape to be taking on one of the top competitors at this tournament, the shorter match also means he can make it to the end of Illya’s. Sorokin has consistently been on Illya’s heels as one of the top Soviet players, so there is a fair amount riding on this match, especially after Illya’s loss yesterday. Napoleon can’t imagine that Illya is in much better shape than him this morning, but he refuses to feel too bad about it, seeing as he was not the one who showed up at his hotel room in the middle of the night.

“Oh no you don’t,” Gaby tells him, tugging on his arm to halt his progress. “We aren’t going anywhere until you tell me where _that_ came from.”

“What?” he asks absently. His mind is spinning, still too busy thinking about the game he just played and worrying about Illya’s match to pay her much attention.

“ _That_ ,” she says, gesturing to the bruise on his neck. “It was definitely not present when we went off to our rooms last night.”

Napoleon gives her a frown of irritation. He had been doing his best all morning to _not_ think about what had happened last night, so he does not really appreciate the interrogation now. He should have expected it, though. Usually Gaby has no interest in his love life, but she always did seem to have a sixth sense about these things, like she could somehow tell that this wasn’t one of his usual anonymous trysts. The thought is more than a little disconcerting.

“So I found some company,” he answers, not quite a lie. “What’s it to you? And can we discuss this while we’re walking?” He doesn’t wait for her assent before he takes off again, but she immediately catches up to him.

“We were headed to bed. You said you were going to sleep. You expect me to believe that you went back out? I don’t care what the rumors say, Solo, I know you. You don’t pick up partners the night before a match.”

“A match I knew was going to be a breeze,” he argues.

“ _Even then_. What is going on?”  
  
Napoleon pauses, sighing, because that is certainly a question he does not know the answer to. When he’d woken up that morning, the bruise on his neck had been the only thing that had convinced him that he hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. He couldn’t deny that he’d wanted Illya pretty much since the first moment he’d laid eyes on the man, though there had certainly been plenty of conflicted feelings at the beginning, before he’d actually gotten to know him. The friendship they’d built in Argentina meant a lot to him, and he had thought it meant something to Illya, too, so when the Russian had resolutely ignored him the first few days they were here and made no sign that he was even trying to visit, it had stung more than a little. To say that he had not been expecting what had happened last night in a million years would be putting it mildly.

He can't even talk to Gaby about it, because he knows she wouldn’t approve of the secret matches and the sneaking around. She’s always been a little suspicious of the Soviets and the lengths they would go to to win, at least privately. He can hear the tirade already about how stupid it is to let on even a little of his strategy to them, how he’s only giving Kuryakin the ammunition he needs to destroy him. Add in this new… _complication_ , and, well, he really doesn’t want to hear it.

“Nothing, ok?” he says. “Can you just… leave it? I’ve had enough of dealing with all of the raised eyebrows all morning, I don’t need your judgement too.”

“I’m not _judging_ you, Napoleon,” she says, her voice gentling. “I’m worried about you.”  
  
“I’m fine, I promise.”

Gaby does not look convinced, but she doesn’t offer an immediate argument, so he takes that as his cue to take off again. “You could have at least gotten some makeup from me to cover it,” she mutters as they walk.

“Yes, well, I didn’t really have time for cosmetics this morning. I barely made it on time to my match as it was.”

Her displeasure at the implications of this—that he’d overslept, that he’d rushed down here—is palpable, but he is saved from further questioning when they arrive at the small crowd that has formed around Illya’s match against Sorokin. Napoleon catches sight of the other Soviets, who shoot him disapproving glares before returning their attention to the game. When he does the same he finds Illya staring at him with a rather unreadable expression for a moment before Sorokin prompts him for his move.

The weight of those blue eyes on him makes his stride falter, a fact that does not go unnoticed by Gaby. Her eyes narrow as she looks from him to Illya and back again, like she can read the story of what happened between written across their faces. Napoleon prays fervently that she cannot.

“He’s played himself into a corner,” she murmurs to him, barely audible, as they get a little closer.

It’s true, the game is in quite a surprising state. Napoleon’s not sure how it got this way and wishes he could have seen the beginning. He stares at the projection of the board on the wall behind them, trying to ponder through the potential moves and figure out what he would do, and right about the time that he thinks he might see a way forward, Illya makes a move. Napoleon can’t suppress the grin that sneaks onto his face.

“He’ll be fine,” he murmurs back confidently.

* * *

“That game was a disaster,” Kozlov tells him later, when the Soviets have all gathered to discuss the day’s matches.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Illya retorts, glaring at him. “I won, didn’t I?”

Kozlov shrugs as if to say _you get opinions whether you want them or not_. It is the Soviet way, after all. Not even the reigning World Champion is immune to criticism, and for good reason. It makes them all better players. Illya expected this, especially coming on the heels of his loss to Napoleon, but today he is decidedly not in the mood. Really, it’s hardly fair that Illya is getting raked over the coals when Sorokin is the one who lost the game today, but he knows better than to try to argue that point. Oleg is clearly on the warpath, stalking around the room and glaring at each to them in turn.

“You let Solo get in your head,” the trainer growls darkly.

An icy finger of disquiet slides down Illya’s spine. Even though he himself had come to this conclusion earlier that day, _they_ don’t know about the secret games, or Illya’s visit to Napoleon’s room last night. They can’t. If any of them suspected… well, he would have much bigger problems than losing the tournament. His eyes flick over to where the other KGB agents sit in the corner of the room, smoking and generally ignoring the chess talk. They certainly don’t look like they’re about to arrest him for collusion, or worse.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Illya grits out as he stares down at a board that is displays a key moment in some other game today, he’s not sure whose.

“Everyone saw how you looked at him when he came in,” Kozlov says, and Illya almost chokes on nothing. But fortunately, he continues, “you were rattled.”

_Rattled_ , right. That’s… a word for it. One could certainly say that Napoleon Solo has a unique ability to rattle him. It should be annoying, this insistence that they talk about Solo, but right now Illya can’t feel anything other than relieved that his face didn’t give away anything more incriminating today.

“His win yesterday affected you,” Oleg accuses. “Did you sleep?”

“I slept.” _Minimally, and not for the reasons you think._

Sorokin himself sits forward then, his brow furrowed. “Where did that endgame come from, anyway? That strategy was very unlike you.”

“I don’t know,” Illya answers cagily, “I analyzed the board. It was the only chance to win.” He does not say, of course, how the strategy had come to him while he’d imagined talking through the game with Napoleon, and if they do not seem to notice how Illya’s game only improved when the American arrived, he is not going to point it out to them.

“Reminded me a bit of him, actually,” one of the younger players, Zaytsev, muses. No one has to ask who he means.

Someone snorts from the other side of the room, though Illya can’t tell who. “Did you see that hickey on his neck? He didn’t even try to hide it.”  
  
“Just how was he going to hide it, up there? Whoever did that wanted it to be seen,” Kozlov scoffs, smirking.

“It’s a disgrace,” Oleg snaps. “This is how he shows up to an international tournament? He demonstrates with his every act that he has no respect for this game.”

“Didn’t let his celebrations affect his game today,” Kozlov mutters under his breath, which draws a few chuckles out of the others.

“Can we talk about anything else?” Illya growls, scrubbing a hand over his face in a desperate attempt to hide the heat he feels building there. He gestures to the board in front of him. “Who’s is this?”

“Ah, mine,” Zaytsev admits.

Illya barely suppresses a groan. Zaytsev’s match that morning had been with Napoleon, who by all accounts had wiped the floor with him. The very last thing he wants to do right now is discuss Napoleon’s strategy and how much his _celebrating_ did not affect it. He stands abruptly, clearly surprising the others.

“I need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk,” he announces. He heads purposefully toward the door before anyone can object, pausing in the doorway only when one of the KGB agents makes to stand. “I don’t need an escort.”

He knows at least one of them will follow him anyway, but at least now they’ll hang back far enough that Illya can pretend he’s alone with his thoughts.

The midsummer sun is brutal out on the pier, keeping most of the crowds away at this time of the afternoon. Still, there are quite a few people laying out on the beach and surfers in the waves. Illya leans on the railing of the pier and stares out at the sparkling blue water, so unlike anything he’d known growing up. Sights like these have become almost commonplace, in the last few years, with all the traveling he gets to do now as an internationally renowned chess grandmaster. They’ve never stopped being utterly breathtaking to him.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back to let the sun beat down on his face, willing the heat to sear away the tumultuous feelings inside him and letting his other senses take over as he tries his best not to think about Napoleon Solo. A dog yips on the beach. A child squeals with laughter. The waves crash against the shore. The warm breeze that’s not nearly refreshing enough ruffles through his hair and blows its way past his collar and the tie he hasn’t bothered to loosen, and he feels, instead, Napoleon’s hot breath on his skin. A drop of sweat trails down the hollow of his back under his dress shirt, following a path that Napoleon’s nimble fingers took the previous night as they skimmed lightly across his body.

This isn’t working.

“Never would have pegged you for a beach-goer, Peril.”

It’s as if the man was summoned by his thoughts. Illya opens his eyes and turns toward the voice to see Napoleon standing next to him with his hands in his pockets. He’s still wearing his suit, like Illya is, but his jacket is slung over one arm, his shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow, and his tie has been pulled out into a loose loop so that the first two buttons of his shirt can be undone. He looks unaccountably at ease in this environment, far more than Illya even though they are dressed nearly identically, and abruptly Illya realizes he has no idea where Napoleon is from originally. He still knows so little about this man’s history, despite all of their late-night games.

It is startling to find that he desperately _wants_ to know. He wants to learn about his life and his hopes and his dreams just as much as he wants to thread his fingers through the dark hair that the wind is ruffling and as much as he wants to lick the pool of sweat that glitters tantalizingly in the hollow at the base of his throat. He wants everything Napoleon Solo will give him.

And _that_ is a truly disastrous thought.

Napoleon clears his throat, and Illya realizes he’s been staring rather fixedly at the collarbones that are peeking out of his shirt collar and the aforementioned hollow between them. He flushes hotly as he looks up and only hopes that it is masked by how red his face must be from standing in the heat of the afternoon. Illya half expects to find a smug, knowing expression on Napoleon’s face, something flirtatious and utterly maddening, but instead he finds the American looking as cautious and as uncertain as he feels.

“Not on the beach,” Illya grunts, tearing his eyes away to stare back out at the sunbathers and the surf.

“No, I suppose you’re not,” Napoleon replies lightly as he turns to follow Illya’s gaze. “Bit more skin than you’re used to seeing, eh?”

Illya huffs a laugh at that. “Hardly. Russians have different attitude about ‘skin’, Cowboy. You Americans think you are so progressive with your ‘free love’ but you cannot get past your puritan roots.”

That was a mistake. Illya doesn’t know how Napoleon always manages to _do_ this to him, to provoke him into saying things he should not.

“Is that so?” Napoleon says, his voice pitched low as he takes a step closer to Illya, so that their shoulders nearly brush. He tips his head to look up at Illya, unmistakable heat in his gaze. “And what do you know about free love, Peril?”

“Cowboy,” Illya growls, a warning. His gaze sweeps down the pier to the dark-suited KGB agent who lurks not-so-subtly behind a small shack selling ice cream.

Napoleon laughs, loose and open. “Relax. I know we’re being watched. And anyway, this isn’t San Francisco.”

Illya does not know what that means, and Napoleon apparently has no interest in explaining. They stand in silence for a little while longer, Illya’s stance as rigid as Napoleon’s is loose. He shouldn’t be standing here with the American—the KGB will certainly report this to Oleg—but he also can’t quite make himself move. Napoleon sways just a little, bumping their shoulders together so subtly that it would be imperceptible to anyone watching. Every brush winds Illya up further, until he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t punch him, or kiss him, or both.

“Did you come out here for a reason, Cowboy?” he grits out eventually.

Napoleon glances up at him. “I’d wager for the same reason you did. Needed some air. Time to think.”

Illya does not ask him what he wanted to think about. To do so feels like it would be inviting trouble. “You played well today,” he says instead. “So I hear.”

“Zaytsev needs to work on his middle game,” Napoleon says with a shrug. “But I’m sure you told him that.”

“I left before we discussed your game.”  
  
“What about your game?”

Illya finally turns his head to look at the man next to him. “What about it?”  
  
“Wasn’t sure you’d be able to get yourself out of that pickle,” Napoleon answers lightly.

“Hmm.”

“Wherever did you come up with that unorthodox endgame strategy?”

Illya’s jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth together. “You know where,” he mutters.

His hands grip the railing tightly in front of him, and Napoleon has placed one of his close enough that their fingers nearly touch. Now his pinkie begins to rub slowly, almost absently, against Illya’s, and Illya has to take a deep breath that is far more unsteady than it should be.

“Will I see you tonight?” Napoleon asks softly.

Illya snatches his hand away, curling it into a fist by his side. “I can’t do this, Cowboy.”

Napoleon is quiet for a moment, and then he bows his head and says, “Right. I suppose I expected that.”  
  
The disappointment is obvious in his voice, and Illya wishes he had not heard it, wishes desperately had not seen the wounded look that had flashed across Napoleon’s face before he could cover it. This isn’t fair, that life should put such a man in his path. It’s not fair that his heart should _ache_ like this.

“We don’t have to—” Napoleon starts, but he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I mean, we can just… play chess. Like we did before. If you want.”

He sounds so hopeful, and Illya wants so badly to say yes. It’s probably ridiculous to think that they can just go back to the way things were, but maybe… maybe if Napoleon is willing to try, Illya should give it a shot.

Maybe he is just making excuses for future bad decisions.

His earlier resolution to put an end to this, to stay away from the American, is crumbling in his hands, pouring through his fingers like the sand sparkling on the beach below them. It is true that the secret matches have made Napoleon’s game better—not even Napoleon would not argue with that—but if he is honest, they have made Illya’s game better as well. And if they have also made Napoleon a bigger threat to Illya in these tournaments, well, perhaps that is a good thing too. After all, how can anyone claim they are the best if they do not seek to push their limits?

(The voice that says this last part sounds suspiciously like Napoleon’s.)

“Ok,” Illya answers eventually. “Just chess.”

He cannot think about how Napoleon’s answering smile fills him with a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun beating down on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note: In case you, like Illya, don't know what Napoleon was talking about when he mentioned San Francisco, in the 1960s SF was pretty much the epicenter of gay culture in the US. So when he says "this isn't San Francisco," the implication is that if that they _were_ in SF, they could be a bit more open about their affections in public than they could elsewhere.
> 
> ****
> 
> Were you surprised?? I mean, setting aside the warning note in the beginning, lol. This is a slightly different trajectory for them than in most of my stories, but I think you'll enjoy it! Will our boys manage to return to "just chess" as just friends?? Tune in next week to find out. 😉


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